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Simone smiles. “Yes, Grandmama. Darling,” she turns to me, “Shouldn’t you see if there’s an additional pillow to help Grandmama sit more—”
“You all are dismissed. Except Natalie,” Grandmama says when Natalie makes move to depart with us. “I need her to prepare the room for my nap.”
Simone takes my arm as if I'm going to lead her out, but it's the other way around. She practically drags me toward the front door. Only once we pass beyond the threshold does she speak.
“What is this about?” she hisses. “Grandmama going for a walk? An American girl waiting on her? Who even is this girl? Is she to be trusted?”
“Simone, please.” Natalie is in the window over us, there's no doubt she can hear every word Simone says. “Natalie is doing wonderful things.”
“Fine, fine. You'll tell me more about what's going on over dinner. I'll be back at seven. In the meantime you'd better go have a stroke of brilliance.” She rolls a mocking hand in the air. “From what I read in your notebook, you're still far from it.”
Simone walks away as anger begins to bubble in my gut. She then turns back to face me, and I pray she doesn't say something I will resent.
Her face has softened and her gentle tone reminds me more of the girl I knew years ago than the woman she’s become. “I know you can do it, darling. It's thanks to you the restaurant has lasted this long at all.”
Simone, full of surprises. She struts off to her waiting classic Fiat, but the feeling in my stomach—of a truth that is bound to explode—is only getting worse. Simone and I were never destined to be together, and I can’t keep pretending this truth will simply disappear with time.
I look back at the window, but Natalie is gone.
CHAPTER 22
Natalie
Of course he has a girlfriend.
The way she sprawled herself over him was sign enough before the whispers in his ear and calling him ‘darling’. Just because the tabloids in Paris don't have anything to say about her doesn't mean she doesn't exist. She sure does exist, in flesh and blood and a Giorgio Armani suit. Class.
Simone exudes class with her every breath.
She also exudes a good amount of old-fashioned snobbery. Definitely not the kind of woman I thought Olivier would fall for. But that says more about me than him. I don’t even know him. What was I thinking?
When he carried me up the stairs last night, and I shivered from the fear of what felt like a near-death experience, the future seemed suddenly clear. It was him and me, a red carpet laid out before us.
Silly daydreams.
What would Olivier Dubois want with a girl like me? Despite all this studying up on Frenchisms, I’m still just some fresh arrival, a small-town hick who can’t keep up with the culture of French life. All the faux pas I've made since I got here, my stupid big smile, falling in the pool when I can’t swim. Look at what a mess I am—me, my clumsy two left feet, and a tower of smashed crystal glasses.
I bound around like a Care Bear, throwing hearts at people. So not French.
You'd think I would've learned by now. If I want to be a real French woman, then there's a lot of myself I’d have to put aside, if I even could. Maybe then a man like Olivier Dubois would be interested in a girl like me.
I could kick myself for daydreaming so far out of my league.
“Well…” an elderly but clear voice beside me draws out, “are you going to stare out the window all afternoon, or are you going to complete the very simple task I asked of you seven minutes ago?”
“Oh my gosh. Madame, I'm sorry. I got dis—”
“Jealous.” I see that glint in her eye again. I know exactly what she is assuming.
“No, not jealous. I was… admiring.”
“Admiring. Of course, you were.”
The Fiat takes off down the gravel driveway, kicking up dust behind it. And she drives a cute little car just to top it all off.
“Appearances can be deceiving, my little American.”
“Don't I know it,” I say. “Judging a book by its cover and all that business. We learn that in kindergarten.” I open the tub of what must be a gajillion dollar cream and begin to spread it on Grandmama's lower legs.
